SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. FROM SALIS. INTO the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning visions Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted, To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great departed, Into the Silent Land! THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. FROM UHLAND. [The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.] OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, The butler hears the words with pain, Takes slow from its silken cloth again Then said the Lord: "This glass to praise, Fill with red wine from Portugal!" The gray-beard with trembling hand obeys; A purple light shines over all; It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, "This glass of flashing crystal tall Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; She wrote in it: If this glass doth fall, Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall! "'Twas right a goblet the fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall! Deep draughts drink we right willingly; First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, "For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; Kling! klang!-with a harder blow than all As the goblet ringing flies apart, In storms the foe, with fire and sword: On the morrow the butler gropes alone, "The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside, THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. FROM PFIZER. A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, Yet oft I dream that once a wife I wake! Away that dream-away! So long, that both by night and dạy The end lies ever in my thought: The mother beautiful was brought; But now the dream is wholly o'er, And wander through the world once more, Two locks-and they are wondrous fair— The brown is from the mother's hair, And when I see that lock of gold, THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. FROM JULIUS MOSEN. FORMS of saints and kings are standing Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love. In his mantle-wound about him, And so stands he, calm and childlike, O, were I like him exalted, I would be like him, a child! And my songs, green leaves and blossoms, THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. FROM JULIUS MOSEN. On the cross the dying Saviour And by all the world forsaken, A poor bird is striving there. Stained with blood, and never tiring, And the Saviour speaks in mildness- Bear, as token of this moment, And that bird is called the crossbill; |